Cyto
As we stepped out of the Capillary yet again, led by Madame DuPont, we found ourselves in a new neighborhood, ‘Océane Avenue’. This time, it was a residential area, not too far from the Louvre.
The air was different here on Océane Avenue, carrying the scent of blooming flowers mixed with the aroma of freshly baked bread from nearby boulangeries. The street was quieter than the bustling city center we had grown accustomed to, and the rows of apartments had a welcoming charm, with their wrought-iron balconies and ivy-clad facades.
Madame DuPont walked briskly, her heels clicking on the cobblestone pavement. “This is one of the few areas in Paris where you can enjoy tranquility while still being close to the city’s heart,” she explained without turning back. “It’s perfect for people like you who need to keep a low profile.”
Allelea and I exchanged glances, a silent communication we had perfected over time. We were both thinking the same thing—this could be the fresh start we were looking for.
We stopped in front of a building that was older than the others, its stone exterior weathered by time, yet it stood proudly, as if it had stories to tell. Madame DuPont retrieved a set of keys from her purse and led us through the heavy wooden door.
The lobby was small but well-kept, with a vintage chandelier casting a warm glow over the patterned tiles. We followed her up a narrow staircase, the sound of our footsteps echoing off the walls.
On the second floor, she stopped in front of apartment number 24. “Here we are,” she said, unlocking the door. “Your new home.”
The apartment was modest but charming, with high ceilings and large windows that let in plenty of natural light. The living room opened to a small balcony overlooking a shared garden below, a rare slice of nature in the urban landscape.
“You’ll find everything you need here,” Madame DuPont said as she handed us the keys. “Furniture, appliances, even a prepaid phone with important contacts saved. Use it wisely.”
“Wow, thank you, Madame. This is more than we had hoped for.” I said to her, the smile on my face betraying my attempt to remain professional.
“No need to thank me,” she shrugged, a knowing smile on her face. “Instead, I must thank you, for deciding to help us.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Allelea asked nervously, “who’s… this ‘us’ you keep talking about?”
While I expected her to become nervous when Allelea asked this, she seemed fairly unfazed by the question. “You’ll find out, soon enough. Now, I need you two to talk. Explain your experiences with the Algorithm, sil vous plait?”
Madame DuPont’s gaze was steady, her eyes reflecting a depth of knowledge and understanding that went beyond our own. Allelea and I took a seat on the plush sofa that faced the balcony, the evening light casting a soft glow across the room.
I cleared my throat, the weight of our story pressing on my chest. “The Algorithm,” I began, “it was like living in a gilded cage. Everything was decided for us—where we lived, what we studied, who we were matched with. It promised perfection, but it left no room for… for humanity.”
Allelea nodded, her hands clasped tightly together. “We were just numbers to it, data points in an endless sea of calculations. But we wanted more; we wanted to choose our own destiny.”
Madame DuPont listened intently, her expression unreadable. “And so you fled,” she said, not as a question but as a statement of fact.
“Yes,” Allelea replied, her voice stronger now. “We couldn’t accept a life dictated by an algorithm. We believed there was more to us than what it could see.”
Madame DuPont stood up and walked over to the balcony, looking out over the garden. “Your story is not unique,” she said, turning back to us. “There are many who have suffered under the Algorithm’s rule. Like I said, France is home to many like you, who need a fresh start.”
“I’m honestly afraid we may seem bratty here…,” I admitted. “fleeing a country just to be with the one I love. Otherwise, I was perfectly all right back home.”
“No, you can’t ever doubt this initiative,” Madame DuPont, replied, tightening her deep brown bun. “God gave us all a free will, a conscience of our own. And as far as I — being no expert whatsoever — know, that system is a direct violation of His will.”
Allelea and I nodded in agreement. “It also goes against the ICCPR. Freedom of thought, conscience, religion and expression,” Allelea added, deep in thought. “But I think the government got away on a loophole in Article 4. This means that a state could potentially limit certain rights guaranteed by the ICCPR if it declares a state of emergency that it deems threatens the life of the nation.”
“Oui. You’re not that bad when it comes to these legalities after all. Anyway, I will talk to the hotel you were staying in earlier, and coordinate your checkout, and arrange for your things to be moved here. With the efficiency of the Veins, this should happen by the end of the day, at the latest.” Madame DuPont replied, as she waved us goodbye and exited the house.
The door clicked shut behind Madame DuPont, leaving Allelea and me alone in the quiet of our new sanctuary. The apartment, with its high ceilings and the soft light filtering through the windows, felt like a haven—a place where we could finally breathe.
I walked over to the window, looking down at the shared garden. It was a small patch of green, but it was alive with the colors of flowers and the buzz of city life just beyond. “She’s right,” I said, more to myself than to Allelea. “This is a fresh start.”
Allelea joined me at the window, her hand finding mine. “A fresh start with a purpose,” she said. “We’re not just running away; we’re part of something bigger now.”
I squeezed her hand, the reality of our situation settling in. We were fugitives, but we were also fighters—fighters for freedom, for choice, for a life unscripted by an algorithm.
“We should start unpacking,” I suggested, turning from the window. “Make this place feel like ours.”
As we opened boxes and arranged our few possessions, the apartment began to take on the warmth of a home. We hung a few pictures, set out books, and filled the space with our laughter and conversation.
By the time the sun set, casting a golden glow over Océane Avenue, we had transformed the apartment. It was no longer just a space provided by the resistance; it was a reflection of us—of Cyto and Allelea, two people who dared to dream of freedom.
That night, as we lay in bed listening to the sounds of Paris outside, I realized that despite the uncertainty of our future, I felt a sense of peace. We were together, we were safe, and we had a cause to fight for.
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The next morning, I woke up peacefully, in my brand new apartment. I noticed that Allelea had already woken up, through the fact that she walked into the room just as I was waking up, a letter in her hand.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” she replied with a small laugh. “Something came in the mail for us.”
Allelea’s smile was tinged with curiosity as she handed me the letter. The envelope was thick, made of high-quality paper, and sealed with a wax emblem that neither of us recognized—a stylized ‘E’ encircled by arcane symbols.
I carefully broke the seal and unfolded the letter. The handwriting was elegant, almost artistic, and the ink was a deep shade of blue that seemed to shimmer in the morning light. The message was concise, yet well-worded:
I looked up at Allelea, my heart racing with a mix of fear and excitement. Who were these people? And how did they know about us? Allelea’s eyes met mine, reflecting the same whirlwind of emotions.
“What do you think?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. “I think… we have a decision to make.”
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Allelea
The day passed in a blur, the letter’s contents weighing heavily on our minds. We spoke little, each lost in our own thoughts about the mysterious Enigma and what lay ahead.
As night fell, the city of Paris transformed into a blur of lights and shadows. And there, in the quiet of our apartment on Océane Avenue, we knew that our lives were about to change forever.
I sighed softly, facing Cyto with a sleepy smile as I sat beside him on the bed of our apartment. “It’s half-past eleven. Not sleepy?”
“Not one bit. I keep thinking about the Enigma… it’s so mysterious, so…”
“Enigmatic?” I finished, a smirk playing on my lips. He chuckled, before nodding in agreement. “Well then,” I added with a small shrug, “if you want to go, we’d better leave soon.”
Cyto’s eyes sparkled with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. The invitation from Enigma had ignited a fire within us—a desire to unravel secrets, to defy the Algorithm’s cold calculations, and to reclaim our freedom.
He stood up, his movements purposeful. “Let’s not keep destiny waiting,” he said, pulling me to my feet. The clock tower loomed in the distance, its ancient silhouette etched against the night sky.
We stepped out into the Océane Avenue Capillary, the glass of the tube cool beneath our shoes. The air held a hint of magic, as if the very fabric of reality was thinner here. Cyto and I stood side by side in our tubes, our breaths visible in the chilly night.
As the tubes approached Florian Fields and the clock tower, its shadow stretched across the narrow street. The door stood before us, its wood weathered and disfigured. And there, just as the letter had promised, was the mark of the Enigma—a subtle sign etched into the wood.
Cyto raised his hand, hesitating for a moment. “Are we ready for this?” he whispered.
I nodded, my heart pounding. “We’ve come too far to turn back now.”
He knocked thrice, the sound echoing through the silent night. The door creaked open, revealing darkness within. We stepped across the threshold, leaving the familiar world behind.
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